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“There’s nothing for me to eat here,” I whine while I push the cart loaded with a bunch of healthy crap down the grain aisle. “Everything’s brown. I’m not a fan of brown food. I prefer food with color. Specifically Blue #1 and Red #40.”
He caught me as I was stepping out the front door to go to the corner market and summarily steered me in the direction of his favorite place.
As usual, Ethan’s busy ignoring me. He grabs a box of quinoa and holds it up for my edification. “You’re not getting any younger, Jones. Time to start watching what you eat.”
Not getting any younger…same thing Marty keeps telling me.
I randomly pick up a small box of rice. “12.99 for a tiny box of brown rice? Was it harvested by the fingertips of angels? Did a fairy fart gold dust in here?”
Ethan’s quelling raised eyebrow does not quell me. A beat later his expression changes to surprise.
“Jane?”
My gaze tracks Ethan’s over my shoulder. A woman wearing a bright smile stares back at us. She’s the girl next door, pretty in a wholesome way. Pin straight brown hair, delicate features. She’s even wearing pearls with her cashmere sweater. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, and the pit in my stomach agrees. Ethan has a smile on his face, the genuine kind. The pit gets larger.
“Jane? What are you doing in New York?”
The two of them hug. It doesn’t take much for me to infer that this is some kind of long lost lover, or maybe an unrequited love. Whoever she is, Ethan seems to genuinely like her in an unfriendly like manner. As far as I’m concerned, Jane sucks.
As they exchange pleasantries, I’m forgotten. That doesn’t bother me. What does, however, is that Ethan’s face lights up every time he looks at Jane.
“And you said you’d never move to New York,” he says, beaming sunshine and rainbows at her. The fire-breathing dragon that lives in the darkest nook of my soul rouses from deep sleep.
“Yeah, lesson learned. Never say never,” replies Jane, with a lilting chuckle.
Her attention shifts and finds me looking bored. She smiles. “We’re being rude,” she tells Ethan, who looks at me like he suddenly remembered I exist. Yeah, jerk, you’re being rude, my eyeballs say while my mouth stays shut.
“Jane this is Amber, Amber Jane.” The way he says her name makes me want to stab him in the neck with one of those overpriced, wooden spoons made from the hands of blind little old Peruvian ladies I saw in the kitchenware aisle. I slap on a super fake smile.
“Nice to meet you, Jane.”
Her rosebud mouth quirks at the inflection in my voice.
“Likewise.” She turns her bright smile on Ethan. “Well, I should get going. Scotty’s waiting for me.”
This does nothing to appease the fire-breathing dragon. For all I know, Scotty could be a Scottish freaking Terrier. I immediately look for a ring. No such luck. Jane is wearing gloves.
Ethan watches her walk away with a soft smile on his obnoxious face. I’m pretty sure if I open my mouth I’m going to start saying stuff I’ll regret, inappropriate stuff, stuff that I have no right to say. Therefore, I keep my lips locked tight, only allowing for an occasional ‘yes’ and ‘no’ for the rest of our shopping expedition. Given my propensity for saying inappropriate stuff on the regular, I give myself major kudos for that.
As soon as we get back to the house, I plead a headache and bolt to my room. The perplexed, semi-hurt look on Ethan’s face elicits not one drop of sympathy from me. This experience only cements the fact that I need to keep some distance between us. We’ve been getting way too chummy lately. It is madness to have any feelings, proprietary or otherwise, for this man, pure madness for a multitude of reasons.
My cell phone signals.
Fancy: I made buckwheat noodles with pesto. Want some?
I’ve barricaded myself in my bedroom like a moody teenager.
Me: No thanks.
My pride won’t allow it even though I’m starving and the noodles sound utterly delicious. Don’t you fucking dare, you spineless pathetic excuse for a female, she whispers in my ear. My pride is a vicious bitch. She scares me. I don’t dare cross her.
Fancy: I’ll leave some for you anyway.
By nine, I’ve managed to distract myself from sulking with a couple of episodes of The Affair. The door to the bathroom swings open and Ethan is standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms hanging low and a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. And by the looks of the V taunting me over the waistband of his bottoms––no underwear. God almighty, what does he have against underwear?
One look at him and a deep flush starts at my scalp and moves all the way to my toes. Actually it feels more like I’m being roasted at the stake. I’m chalking this up to my cooch being lonely. You can’t blame her. She hasn’t had a visitor in a really long time.
